August 22, 2006

Lamest admission ever

I cooked for the first time last night. If you actually can cook, or are Italian, you may want to stop reading right now, as what I'm about to describe probably won't measure up to your lofty standards. I'm fine with that. We can't all be Virgil Thomson and whip up amazing French dinners in our cramped kitchens. (Read Vivian Perlis' remarkable Composers' Voices from Ives to Ellington for more on Thomson's culinary gifts.)

First, I made my own tomato pasta sauce by putting together tomatoes with some oil, salt and pepper. Was a cinch. Then I cooked some asparagus with oil, and a little more salt. Voila, dinner. (I boiled the spaghetti somewhere in there.) And I didn't singe my eyebrows, get burned, or otherwise bring bodily harm upon myself. The next step will involve actually opening the stove and cooking something in there. I currently use it to house my priceless art collection, since it's the only airtight space in my apartment. (Stoves are airtight, right?)----Happy birthday to Achille-Claude Debussy, born 144 years ago today in 1862. Mahler was born in 1860, Richard Strauss in 1864. Not a bad decade, on the whole, except for that pesky Civil War President Lincoln was leading at the time. M. Debussy, may your waves play, your girls be flaxen-haired, your festivals filled with sirens and your faun find what he's looking for.